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I was twenty when I first met Narcissa Malfoy. We spoke through the bars in cell block twenty-three, on floor two. She was an interesting person, to say the least. Our conversation was limited; there was supposed to be no talk among the Azkaban prisoners and the guards.

She was very submissive and did whatever we (the Azkaban guards) asked of her. I guess that she must’ve gotten used to being told what to do. From what I hear, her parents were very traditional, and she grew up around that garbage. She was the exact opposite of outspoken, actually. Her head was always bowed when someone she didn’t know made eye contact with her, and she always was grateful to every tiny thing a person did.

She spoke of her husband, who, from what I hear, treated her well and they both lived comfortably. More than comfortable, in my opinion. They were wealthy; anyone could see that. She did not care for him much, and having met the man, I can’t say any different.

She also spoke of a son, and she loved him very much. He was the subject of many of our conversations. She would always talk about how handsome his eyes were. “They are the palest blue. He has my eyes,” she would say. One time I asked where he was now. She said he was in hiding and that was all she could say. I asked why. At that comment she stared at me as if I had three heads. She replied, “He is in danger. There are few who would bother to help him, much less me. I entrusted him to a safe person who provided a legitimate place to hide. I am not at liberty to say any more.” I sensed that she was unhappy and decided to leave.

That was one of the last sane sentences that came out of her mouth. The Dementors were getting inside her brain. She had lasted a long time, for we had our civilized conversations for months after she was imprisoned. But from that last day on, whenever I saw her, she was either babbling on and on about the most random subjects or was in hysterics. Once, I passed by her cell and she called me over. “I’m losing my mind aren’t I?” She asked. I was silent; I did not want to say what was truly on my mind. A single tear slid down her cheek and she turned away from me. I continued my patrol.

She died the next day. Some say she committed suicide; others say her brain couldn’t take it. I attended her burial. Afterwards, I saw a young man, about my age, standing at her gravestone. I stepped up behind him and he turned to me. There was one thing I noticed about him. He had her eyes.

We understand that it may be for a greater good if ever we were to perish in battle; it may be for the greater good if our deaths could help save the wizarding world.

“Stupefy!” The curse finds its mark, and a Death Eater falls.

It’s part of our job. Part of being an Auror. You have to accept that life isn’t always easy, that not everyone is ‘good’. It is up to you to defend the population from evil, it is down to you to defend the world. It’s a huge task. And everyone looks up to you, everyone trusts you.

It can be daunting sometimes, can seem hopeless, but we always have to try. We are never afraid to try.

“Petrificus Totalus!” A Death Eater falls.

“Protego!” But more keep on coming.

We have to fight. Fight together, for together we can be strong. Always fight. This war seems endless; we never know when another attack is coming. It may be today, maybe tomorrow, it may be next week; but we are always prepared. We set the alarms and lay out the spells, always on our guard. Always ready to fight.

We know we might not make it in this war. We know it, our families know it; and yet as tragic as it seems, when – if the time comes, they know what we must do. We know what we have to do. We are prepared for the losing situation, prepared to take on the enemy, drag them down with us if all hope is lost. And we are not afraid to try, not afraid to attack.

“Crucio.” The pain is unbearable and yet time is still short.

“Stupefy!” … So we must struggle on.

There are five of them now. They surround the two of us completely. We have no escape and we know their orders, know what they have to do. Voldemort takes no prisoners.

We must be prepared to fight.

Though they surround us we might still break the circle. Can still rid the world of a tiny bit more evil; our side can still win the war even if we ourselves have lost.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

“Stupefy!”

It is no use. Though we are trying, too many of them surround us. There is no hope left, but we continue to fire our spells. We attack in the hope that one jet of light will penetrate their shields.

Bright yellow streetlamps glow in the street. It is dark beyond them. It is night. And the lamps shine down like spotlights.

When I was little, I used to dream that I was famous – a star. I’d dream that I was beautiful, that people cared about me, that somewhere, someone actually loved me. I’d dream that my home was a palace, and the dusty cobwebs were chandeliers that glistened with every thread of light, the cold stone walls were covered with expensive wallpaper, the soiled floor lined with marble. I’d dream that one day, my handsome prince would come in his elegant carriage and take me away. I’d dream that we’d be married, have adorable children; the home that I hated and the family that hated me would be long forgotten, no longer tarnishing my perfect life.

It was like a fairytale. A blissful story where I could finally take centre stage.

But that was an impossible world. They said.A Muggle world. Father told me.

And Father hated Muggles.

The lamps dim slightly to glow orange – a dimmer light at the side of the stage.

I used to play that fantasy over and over in my head – from beginning to end, the dream never changing. It lessened the pain slightly, made it a bit easier to breathe…sometimes.

Whenever Father and Brother talked about their blood purity, our heritage, I’d slip away in my mind, and dream of a world where blood wasn’t important, where you could live anywhere, reach anywhere – reach the heights, regardless of where you were born.

A car rushes past, splashing the pavement in a puddle of grey water. Slowly, the grit sinks to the bottom of the pool, leaving the water crystal clear. Yet tainted.

There were times when I thought that my dream had come true, that everything had changed. Maybe Tom really did love me. Maybe I had suffered enough, and somewhere, somebody had taken pity on me and given me what I had always wanted and dreamed of.

I was so naïve, so foolish to believe in such things. It was never meant to be, I should have known. I should have guessed that nothing good would ever last.

The rain starts to fall, splashing into the puddles in fat droplets. My tears fall with them. What am I going to do?

I am cold, frightened, alone again save for the child I know is inside me. Perhaps one day his dreams will come true, and he’ll be happy, feel loved. Perhaps all my dreams will be born in him, and they will be fulfilled…

I hope so, though I may not be there to see it, or be there with him to experience it. I hope with all my heart that my final dream will come true.

She steps away and the rain follows her down the dreary street. The spotlight lies behind her and she has exited the stage.

Author: SiriuslyMentalHouse: GRYFFINDORWarnings: Might be a bit graphic at the end, but should not offend anyone. Words: 467and

Di Vetro

They had been living this way since before he could remember. Small house, no windows, candlelight to bright the rooms in their dim, flickering fashion. The doors were tall and narrow - intimidating, some might say. Everything was covered in a fine film of dust; the dishes were always grimy.

The boy could not recall a time when his mother had not looked exhausted. He supposed she had been pretty at one time, but that time was far-gone now. The only memories he had of his father were of the loud, boastful man who drank too much and liked to sing verses of the Unicorn Song after he'd drained a few bottles of Irish whiskey. He could see the kitchen as it was, the scrubbed wooden table - dirty, as always - crumbs of bread on the spindly chairs, an upturned glass resting in the middle, a puddle of what he reckoned was milk once seeping slowly out and onto the scarred wood.

Mama sat always to the left of Papa, who was at the head. The boy sat across from his mother, never daring to glance up from his plate, lest he see her dead eyes, icy blue in the gathering dark. Their house was always dark, for as long as he had lived there.

'Ghosts do not need light, eh?' Papa said, ruffling his hair with a clumsy hand.

Ghosts never needed the light. Ghosts thrived in darkness. When he was younger, Papa would stand him before the mirror on the western wall and make him stare.

'Look at yourself, boy.' He would glance at the cieling, brown eyes raised to the heavens. 'This is my punishment, eh? I think I am repented and get myself a wife, a nice house, and this is what you give me? A ghost? Why do you punish me still? Why do you give me this useless lump for a wife? Why must I be the one afflicted with this vile creature for a son?'

The boy would listen, and stare into the glass, and hate what he saw. He hated the pale flesh and the black eyes. Why could he not have been blue-eyed like his mother? His father would clap a great meaty hand onto the boy's shoulder, and he would stiffen, flinch away. After a few years, the boy knew to come to the glass, even without his father. Every Monday after dinner he would stumble over, stare into his reflection, and loathe every inch of the waif-like creature that glared back. Skinny, bony, crooked teeth. Inky eyes, greasy hair, and milky skin.

'I am a ghost,' he would hiss. 'I am a ghost.'

Afterward, he would sit by the stove, testing the hot coals with slender fingers until the skin burned blood red.

Author: SiriuslyMentalHouse: GRYFFINDORWarnings: Words: 478and

Mestor

Dad promised the strikes would be over by noon.

'We're a shoo-in,' he had grinned, seemingly, for the first time in weeks. Mum scoffed and cooked and slammed round pots, but I knew she was secretly hoping, as we all were, for noontime to bring a bigger paycheque and a promotion. Junior manager, perhaps, if all really did go well.

The strikes did not end at noon. Nor did they end at one, two, three, or four. Mum called me in for dinner. Five passed slowly, tediously.

16th November, 1975. Strikes worse than ever.

At seven I heard the key in the lock. I heard his boots, his heavy breathing. I heard the tuneless humming and the tapping feet and I could see his eyes, glazed and red. His cheek was bruised, and he was bleeding from the mouth. I thought of police truncheons and angry riots on the television. 1975, a glorious year. Dad lost his job and the Union. We lost the paycheque. Mum lost the baby. A glorious year.

He sat in front of the television with his cider and glazed eyes. Dr Who's face twisted on the screen.

'Watch it, mestor!'

Dad thought this was hilarious. 'Watch it, mestor!' Over and over. 'Watch it, mestor!' He laughed through the swelling cheek and the greasy hair and the cut on his lip. He laughed through his cider, and Mum's whinging about paycheques. 'Watch it, mestor!'

And the last I heard was the dull thump of him hitting the ground floor, and the grating whinge in his voice as he said, 'Bloo'r'hell, Sev, 'msorray. Din' knowyerhated't.'

Next day he overslept and lost his job. He lost the Union, and the promotion, and me. He was still asleep by dinner, and breakfast the next day. Silent, white. His eye didn't move. We left him by the stairs until he started to smell, and then Mum called the rubbish collector.

He stared hard into Hightowler's icy eyes, his best Death Glare. It was like school again, but different people, different place, different reasons.

'All right, then, breed?'

This was the rubbish they always fed him. All right, breed? You startin', then, filth? Your kind eat dogs, do they? They eat cats? You going to eat my cat, breed?

He imagined himself in a mirror, with the skinny neck and too-large nose. Greasy black hair and eyes to match. A Traveller's eyes. Not his mother's blue. He thought of Uncle Henry and Aunt Aggie in their flat. Cold soup and stale bread. Milk far past its expiring date. Travellers settled in a town that didn't want them. He thought of Father roaming France, of Mother dying. He thought of punching out Hightowler's crystal eyes.

'You talk, breed? C'mere, I've heard you talking. You like flowers, breed? I've seen you sneaking flowers into that filthy place your lot have got the gall to call a fl - '

His fist had moved faster than he imagined. Flying, hitting, pulling back and reeling up for another blow. Hightowler grinned, clutching his cheek. 'You going to fight me, breed? Your kind, they fight dirty, do they? Like pigs and dogs. Filthy, nasty little mon - '

Again, he surprised himself. Hightowler only showed him that horrible, cold grin. He could see everything in that grin. His life meant nothing to them, the boys around them, their mothers, their fathers. He swung again, this time blocked by a strong hand, not Hightowler's. Woolcroft smirked, and then Hightowler smirked, and soon the lot of them were smirking at him, eyes narrowed, lips thin.

He knew each punch thrown earned him another in his face, his chest, anywhere they could get at him. They pinned him down, a boy on each knee, Hightowler pushing into his elbows as Woolcroft kicked with heavy black school shoes.

'That - breed - is for coming to - my - town and stink - ing it up - and - THAT - is for looking at - my - bloody sister - you disgusting - pafectic - little - pikey!'

Ah, pikey. That was his favourite of all the names, better even than breed.

'Give it to him, Woolcroft!'

'Kick his head in!'

'Kill him! Kill him!'

They had worked up a nice chant now - kill him! kill him! kill him!

Time passed in a daze of heavy blows and mocking laughter. He no longer felt the punches to his face, his stomach. Somewhere, very far off, he knew it hurt. Somewhere below the numbness, the wanting to cry and holding it back, he knew he ought to be feeling pain. A sharp sting in his gut, a deep, ingrained throbbing beneath his eye. Just like school.

Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!

'All right, then, breed?'

They strode off, laughing, joking. Did you see his face? Did you see his bloody face? Crying! Poor ickle Pikey crying for his mum!

He hasn't got a mum.

That's the better! Ickle Pikey's got no mummy. Poor fing.

Did you hear him whimpering? Like a soddin' baby.

Prop-ah pafect'ic.

Got that right.

He picked himself up, like he always did, smiling. What difference did a smile make? What difference was it if he lie on the ground forever, moaning and feeling sorry for himself and trying - oh, sweet Merlin - trying not to cry.

And the thing was, it made no difference at all. No one else cared if he smiled or not, but they didn't like it. They liked tears and pleas and muffled cries. He smiled with swollen lips and thanked Hightowler. Always thanked them afterwards. It confused them. It gave him the power and made him feel, for a brief moment, that a smile and a mumbled thanks could tip the world on its side. The tables turned. He smiled because he could.

He thanked them and headed home to the flat that smelled of cats and celery and millwork, to the uncle who waited by the door and the aunt who wanted to know why anyone would want to hurt a boy like him. Her sweet nephew, her angel. He smiled at her, too, when she asked where he had been, who had been bothering him this time.

Who's been beating you up, then? What have you been doing? Look at the state of your clothes! Those were new trousers! I'm not a millionaire, you know, and - oh, my - are you all right? What have they done to you? Are you hurt badly? Bring the ice, Henry. I don't care if we haven't got any ice, bring the pork for tomorrow's dinner! What's happened to your shoes? Who's been taking your shoes? Who would want to hurt a boy like you, hm? What have you been doing?

Peter’s gaze dropped down to the floor. There was so much that he could have told him. There was so much that he had to tell him, for it concerned Dumbledore, and his best friends. He couldn’t tell Dumbledore because he would surely inform James, Sirius, Remus, and Lily. If that happened, they were sure to desert him; well, after Sirius murdered him.

Thoughts raced through his mind. He had gone too far. He had gone where only few people had gone. He had given his mind and life up to the most dangerous person in the world. He had given it to the one who could turn on him and kill him at any instant, the one who everyone feared: The Dark Lord.

Peter sighed and looked up and met Dumbledore’s gaze. Dumbledore sat quietly while Peter pondered. He hadn’t moved nor said a word. But Peter had the feeling that Dumbledore knew everything that was going through his head. He should tell him and he knew it. It would be better hearing it from him instead of finding out from another source like Severus Snape. He should just show him the mark on his arm. He should divulge every one of the Dark Lord’s secrets to him.

What would they think of you, Peter. They’d still take you as a betrayer. You are plotting against your best friend and his wife. There is no turning back from the Dark Lord once you’re in. You agreed.

He can hide me though. He knows charms that none of us has yet to master and he can hide me effectively.

The Dark Lord shall find you wherever you are. You cannot hide!

Peter sighed once more, took a deep breath, and looked up. He had made up his mind. He wasn’t going to betray the Dark Lord.

Peter opened his mouth to say something, but Dumbledore held up his hand to silence him.

Snow lightly drifted down from the starry sky and onto the darkened Hogwarts ground. The lights looked like golden, glittering gems decorating the castle, but one was noticeably dimmer and flickered ever so often.

In her office, Minerva McGonagall sat on a rocking chair in front of the fireplace, a large, brown, leather book open in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other. Her stern face was focused as she concentrated on the book. She took a sip out of her mug, placed it on a table, and flipped the page.

At that instant, a loud knock woke her from her reverie. She sighed, closed the book and carefully stood. She pulled her robes over her nightgown, walked to the door, and opened it carefully. A tall, handsome, boy with jet black, untidy, hair and square spectacles stood in the doorway.

“James…why are you calling so late?” she asked sternly.

“I am, after all, the head boy, Professor,” said James laughing. “Anyway, Professor Dumbledore wanted me to give this to you.” He passed her a note, bade goodbye, and went to join a red-haired girl at the end of the corridor.

McGonagall closed her door and read the note, her cheeks slowly turning pink. Upon finishing, she smiled, and pulled out her wand. She tapped herself with her wand and a white gown appeared in place of her nightgown.

Minutes later, she found herself knocking on Dumbledore’s door, her grey hair flowing down past her shoulders.

“Come in,” said a voice behind the door. She slowly opened the door and stepped in. The room was dimly lit with candles which smelled of a very sweet elf-made wine. She looked around and saw Dumbledore sitting at a small round mahogany table, wearing a set of magnificent red robes.

“Ah, my dear Minerva,” he said standing up and walking towards her. She raised her hand, which he took and kissed gently. “Glad you could make it.”

“Anything for you, Albus,” she said sweetly and he walked her over to the table. He pulled out her chair and she sat down, blushing profusely. He sat across from her and smiled.

“Wine?” he offered, taking out his wand and waving it across the table. Two wine glasses appeared.

“Thank you, Albus,” she said smiling at him. She took a sip of her wine and when she brought the wine glass down, she saw him gazing at her intently. “Anything wrong?”

She smiled and as they looked into each other’s eyes, she noticed their faces drifting closer. They were a few inches apart when a loud knock broke them from their trance.

Professor McGonagall jerked awake and looked around wildly. Another knock sounded on her office door. She stood up, placing her book and mug on her table, and opened the door. A tall boy with jet black hair stood on the other side smiling at her.

Your eyes widen in shock. You have worked in Azkaban for years, thirteen years exactly, and never have you seen an inmate act so calmly around a warden or guard. No. Usually, they’re curled in a corner, sobbing, clutching their chests and babbling nonsense. Not Black. He’s talking to you, as though you two were waiting together in the dentist’s office. He’s acting as if there are no bars between you.

Black laughs bitterly. “But you’ll go home tonight, see your wife… your kids… You know, I have a godson. His name is Harry.”

You tilt your head. He’s opening up to you as though you were a friend, now. As though perhaps you two know each other. Well, you suppose that since you’ve been watching his particular cell now for nearly two months, that it’s somewhat logical that he recognizes you. You feel uncomfortable as he opens up to you, telling you all this, so calmly… so sanely. You begin to wonder which of you is losing their mind.

“He’s in an orphanage now, I ‘spect,” Black continues, his voice cracks. “Merlin, would I have liked to have adopted him…”

“Black,” you say, finally. “You really shouldn’t be telling me this.”

“But I want to,” Black says softly. “I need to.”

There’s a lull in the conversation as you wander to check on a woman, two cells down, shrieking like a lunatic. You try to sedate her, to calm her. But it is difficult when you feel Black’s eyes on you the entire time. When you return to his cell, his grey eyes are gazing at you intently. They haven’t left you.

“I’m not like her, you know,” he says, nodding towards the cell of the woman. “I’m not crazy. I am innocent.”

And for a moment, you want to believe him. You open your mouth to say something to him. But then your shift ends, and, like Black had said, your family awaits your return. The next morning, you are reassigned to a different set of prisoners.

Two Azkaban guards thrust Severus Snape backwards into a cell before slamming the metal and stone door. Snape stumbled, but fell to the ground with a “thud”. The man in the corner snickered.
“Snivellus? I knew they’d catch you one day…” he said hoarsely.
Snape stood up and looked to the sitting man—Sirius Black. Snape groaned. Black had been Snape’s worst enemy at Hogwarts. Black would torture Snape, embarrass Snape, and Snape resented him for that. In fact, he loathed the man. Now, they were tossed into the same Azkaban cell.
“If you must know, Black,” Snape said acidly. “Dumbledore himself is vouching for my innocence.”
Black’s bony jaw dropped. Snape, innocent? Black couldn’t imagine that. Snape had always hung out with the wrong crowd and done the wrong things in school. And it was a fact he’d become a Death Eater after Hogwarts. There was no way that Snape could be innocent. No way that Dumbledore would believe that. No reason that the Ministry should even give him a trial.
“You got a trial?” Black asked, seething. “Isn’t it ironic that the guilty are the ones who will walk free?”
Snape made a sound like a hissing cat and drew himself to full height. He strode towards Black.
“You dare you call me guilty? You, who helped murder your best friends?” Snape spat at the sitting man.
Black leapt to his feet and stood up straight. He was a great deal taller than Snape.
“I would never betray my friends!” Black shouted. Someone in another cell shrieked with manic laughter.
Snape laughed coldly, “It seems you have and you’ve been caught. Why deny it?”
Black glared. “I didn’t betray the Potters. Peter Pettigrew—“
“Was also killed at your hand,” Snape finished boredly. “Black, will you stop denying the truth? It’s rather tiresome.”
Black opened his mouth to say something, when the cell door opened.
“Mister Snape, you’re free to go,” said a short and stocky man, accompanied by two Dementors.
Snape smiled and Black’s already open mouth dropped considerably lower as he watched Snape leave. The guilty walked free while the innocent remained behind bars.

Andromeda coughed. She pulled the covers tighter around her freezing body. She sniffed, and blew her nose loudly into a tissue. Ted walked in, a mug of steaming peppermint tea in his hands.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently.

“Lousy,” Andromeda answered with a small chuckle that quickly turned into a cough. Ted handed her the mug.

“Drink it. It’ll make your throat feel better.” Andromeda took the mug from his hands, and blew in it to cool it.

Andromeda looked up from her tea. Ted was staring at her with a smile on his face.

“What?” Andromeda asked. Ted’s smile widened and he shook his head.

“Nothing.”

“Why are you staring at me?” Andromeda insisted.

Ted chuckled. “I was just thinking of you on our wedding day. I remember thinking you were the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.”

“But now, with my puffy nose, watery eyes, and dry skin, you think you made a mistake, right?” Andromeda joked.

Ted remained serious. “No. I still think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he said softly. He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers caressed her cheek.

“Oh, Ted.” Andromeda closed her eyes and leaned her face against his hand. “I’ve got something to tell you,” she said suddenly.

“What’s that?”

“I wasn’t sure when to tell you, but I think now is as good a time as any.”

Ted looked at his wife with interest. “Is something wrong?” he asked anxiously.

Andromeda grinned. “Everything’s wonderful. I’m pregnant.”

At first Ted didn’t react, but then his mouth was shaped into a wide smile, and he was laughing happily. “For how long have you been pregnant?” he said happily.

“Almost three months now,” replied Andromeda, taking his hand into her own. “In six months I’m going to have a baby. It seems so hard to comprehend,” Andromeda said breathlessly.

Wandering. Harry had no idea where he had Apparated to or how long he had been walking or where he was going. But he wanted to go far away. He wanted to leave. “Leave it all,” he whispered. He wanted to leave the pain, leave the magic, leave the evil, and leave the good.

Harry didn’t want the whole Wizarding world depending on him to free them and to save their families. It was too much, wasn’t it? Yes, it was. It was too much for an eighteen year old boy to have gone through all that Harry had gone through.

Harry’s parents were dead – and then everyone close to him had died as well. Sirius was dead, Remus was dead, Dumbledore was dead, Neville was dead, George was dead, and now Ron was dead too. Harry had never imagined Ron would die. Always in his head, as if it was some fantasy, Hermione and Ron were on either side of him, encouraging, helping, laughing through the pain. But now Ron was gone. And Hermione was broken. Would she become a shell, like Fred? Fred, who could go through an ordeal better than anyone Harry knew, had become deeply secluded and depressed after his twin had been killed. Would Hermione be like that? Would she mourn the death of her fiancé for the rest of her life? Would she never recover, and become the incredible witch and mother Harry knew she was meant to be?

Had he ruined these people? Had he ruined the Weasley and Granger family? If he had never gotten involved with Ron, would George and Charlie and Ron be dead? Would Fred be miserable? Would Percy be a stranger to his own family? Was it his fault Hermione wouldn’t be getting married to the love of her life? He shook his head. He shouldn’t have agreed that they come with him, that they help him with the Horcruxes; he should have kept it all to himself, spared them the danger and spared their families the pain.

Whether it was his fault or not, Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to go back. He couldn’t go back to the Wizarding world and continue without Ron. He wouldn’t be able to face Mr. or Mrs. Weasely. He couldn’t face Hermione again. And he didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to lose anyone else and feel the unbearable pain and guilt again. Maybe he would keep wandering until he died.

Cedric Diggory was walking toward the Great Hall when he heard an exasperated Gryffindor sigh that she should have been in Hufflepuff, after telling her friends about the mistake she’d made in class.

Cedric froze as he heard the reply, “Don’t say that, you’re not that dumb.” His hands clutched into fists as he continued walking, the group’s laughter ringing in his ears.

He was sick of it. Cedric was sick of walking down the train and listening to the first-years talk about houses and say how horrible it would be to be, or that they would die if they were sorted in Hufflepuff. He was sick of having younger students come to him in tears, because others teased them about being in Hufflepuff.

Gryffindors thought they were cowards. Ravenclaws thought they were stupid. Slytherins thought they were lazy.

Enough was enough.

Hufflepuffs may not value courage, knowledge, or ambition like the other houses, but they valued something much more important.

Hufflepuffs value human life.

It is that value that makes Hufflepuffs so loyal.

If anyone entered the Hufflepuff Common Room that would not see a bunch of cowardly, stupid, lazy students; they would see a family. They would see a family that cared and supported each other, a family that felt each other’s pain, a family that would do anything for any member of that family.

It was because of that family that Cedric stood in front of the Triwizard Cup, a slip of parchment in his hand. He knew about the dangers and his heart leapt in fear, but that didn’t matter.

For Cedric had heard too many taunts, had seen too many tears, and comforted too many friends to back down now. He heard the whispers of people wondering whether, a Hufflepuff, had the courage, the intelligence, and the ambition to complete in this tournament. Cedric didn’t know if he did and didn’t really care. He had loyalty to his family and his family’s loyalty to him.

Cedric crossed the age line and dropped the parchment into the Cup. As he turned back to the crowd a smile crept onto his face.

The truth was, they didn’t understand. Cedric would die for his family.

Minerva sat head in her hands, staring out rain soaked window, tears running down her cheeks. For the first time in her life she was ashamed to be a Gryffindor.

How had a year that started so well, ended up disastrous?

It started back in October, the attacks. Two third-year students, both Muggleborns, had been found in a hallway, petrified. That was just the beginning. Today nine students were lying petrified in the Hospital Wing, four of them Gryffindors.

During that time Minerva felt great pride for her fellow Gryffindors. They showed great courage as continued schooling and supported each other, but then it happened.

A girl died.

She had just received word, that the person was responsible for the attacks, for the death of that girl, was one of Gryffindors’ own. That knowledge tore her heart in two. She was ashamed to be a Gryffindor, and she blamed herself as Head Girl.

“Minerva.”

She turned and looked into the weary lined face of Professor Dumbledore. “Yes, Professor.”

“Hagrid is in his room packing. Please assist and escort him to Entrance Hall within the hour.”

“Yes, Professor,” Minerva replied, looking at the ground. She respected Dumbledore beyond any other teacher, and hated for him to see her in this moment of weakness. Truth be told, she never wanted to see Hagrid again, let alone help him pack.

Dumbledore knew, he was could read better her better than she could read herself. With a kindly look on his face he stated, “Remember, things are not always as they seem. It is moments like these that make a true Gryffindor.”

Minerva slowly walked the stairs to the boys’ dormitories. As she pushed open the door she found Hagrid howling with grief, shoulders shaking, and an open trunk beside him.

As she closed the door before her, Hagrid looked up her. Though he was only thirteen years old, he towered over her. Minerva simply stared at his face.

That face, she would never forget it. It was full of grieve and sorrow, but at the same time, determination. He was waiting and ready to explode if she was here accuse and taunt him. It was the haunted look of a man who was being punished for something he didn’t understand.

Minerva walked over and placed a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry, Hagrid. I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

Hagrid threw himself in her arms as she rocked and held a young boy twice her size, but an innocent boy. Minerva was sure of that innocence as soon as she had seen Hagrid’s face.

As she let him weep in her arms, Minerva thought about Dumbledore had said. A true Gryffindor was not simply brave in battle, but was one who had the courage to believe and stand up for what was right, even when it wasn’t easy. She would stand next to and support Hagrid even though it would be hard, because she believed in the true values of Gryffindor House.

Severus sighed as sat down after another worthless Occlumency lesson. What was he going to do with Harry Potter?

As much as Severus hated to admit it, the boy was talented enough, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was Potter had absolutely no ambition to speak of. He lacked the desire for greatness, for anything that remotely appeared to be self-serving. Curse Gryffindors, things would be so much easier if Potter was a Slytherin. Any decent Slytherin upon being told he needed to learn Occlumency, for his own good, would have no problem mastering the skill. Slytherins don’t try, they do it. They do it because they have to.

Gryffindors, however, won’t do a thing unless it’s for some high and noble cause. On the other hand, Slytherins understood one of the basic fundamentals of the universe; you can't help others when you refuse to help yourself. Yet, Potter was too stubborn and bull-headed to understand this.

And this is the man who is going to save the world.

Severus knows this, Dumbledore does, too. But the Headmaster is too blinded by love to see that, unless Potter changes his way of thinking, he is just going to be another body found beneath a Dark Mark.

It will fall to Severus to prod Potter unto the proper path. He just has to figure out how, before it’s too late.

Authors note: I credit this story to Jenn22291, who sugguested that I write a drabble about how James proposed to Lily. Thank you so much, Jenn! You really saved my neck today!

I stood near a statue of some great Muggle soldier guy named Horatio Nelson, leaning against the stone base. My hand rested on the lump that was in my pants pocket. My heart was beating frantically against my ribs. I scanned the park, trying to find Lily. After scrutinizing the time on my watch, I learned that it was 1:23. Seven more minutes.
Time passed, and there was no sign of the woman that I was supposed to meet.
“Excuse me, have you seen a woman with red hair and who was wearing a green dress,” I called out to a young woman with short, brown hair and who was walking her dog.
She shook her head and said,” Nope” before walking on.
So I waited. And waited. And waited. During that time, I kept on thinking, “where the hell are you, Lily?”
I checked my watch again. It was five minutes to two. She wasn’t coming.
“This was a fool’s errand,” I thought miserably. Lily didn’t want to come and see me. I was about to turn around and leave the park when I heard a high pitched female voice shout out, “James? Is that you?”
I turned my head around to see a woman standing near the park entrance. Her red hair was tied back in a pony tail and she was wearing a sleeveless apple green dress. It was Lily. She came. I could recognize her any where.
“Why are we meeting here,” she asked as she walked over to me, “Did something happen?”
I didn’t remember what happened next. Only that Lily said “yes.” Why was she saying yes? What did I ask of her that made her say “yes”? The rush of blood pounding in my ears made it almost impossible to hear anything. It wasn’t until then did I see the diamond ring on her finger. I had managed to accomplish the impossible. I had asked Lily Evans to marry me.

Author: coppercurls
House: Hufflepuff
Warnings: reference to character deaths
Words: 463
Title: Who will pick them up

She began each day by scanning the obituaries, seeking familiar names and praying desperately that she wouldn’t find them. It had become a habit now, each time reawakening the pain she half thought would never disappear.

Eyes skimming down to the edge of the page, she allowed herself a sigh of relief. One more day eluding heartbreak, and yet there were still so many names, so many other people who would shed so many other tears.

A yell and a laugh from the other side of the room interrupted her reverie, and she glanced up to see the Slytherins toasting each other over some piece of news. Justin gave them a disgusted glance from his seat beside her, and shook his head as he wearily began pushing his breakfast about his plate again.

“How can you stand it?” he asked her at last. “How can you sit there so calmly while they cheer, knowing they killed your family?”

“It wasn’t them,” she began, in all fairness.

“It was their parents and their friends, Su. In a year or two it will be them, just wait.” The bitterness in his voice rose over the clatter of dishes and soft conversation.

“Perhaps,” she agreed with more tolerance than she thought she would ever collect, “but they have not chosen it yet.”

“Susan.”

She glanced at Justin, and knew he could see through that thin veneer of rationality, the mask she held to prove she was sane.

“Sometimes I can’t stand it,” she confessed quietly. “Sometimes I want to scream and yell, smash china, and then go bash that supercilious smirk off Malfoy’s face. Sometimes I feel like the world is spinning into a million little fragments and I can’t hold on for a moment longer.”

“But you do.”

“I do,” she agreed. “I don’t know how, but I do.”

For a moment, they sat side by side in a companionable silence, each lost in their own thoughts. At the Gryffindor table, Hermione and Ron began to have their daily row, while Harry sat in the middle shaking with suppressed laughter and waiting for it to blow over.

“I know they say that we are not the brightest,” Susan said at last, “but I can tell you this. Someday, this war will end, and they are going to need us to pick up the pieces. We won’t be able to hold grudges then. After the courageous fall, they will need someone to pick them up. And we are going to have to be there. And can you tell me now, even if it was them,” she said gesturing to the Slytherins, “that you could leave them there without guilt?”

Justin sat for a moment, struggling with his conscience. “No,” he admitted at last.

“Someone has to stay with him, Hermione. We can’t trust him here on his own.”

“But we can trust his information?”

“We have to; this is our best chance to find the last horcrux. It’s too good to pass up. We will be back soon I promise.” He cut off all her protestations. “Don’t worry, we will be fine.”
Hermione sighed. This was not how she had planned to spend her day. She was supposed to be out there with Harry and Ron, helping them find the missing horcrux, not sitting here babysitting the ferret. They were a trio, right? And trio meant three. So why were those two off gallivanting without her?

“You’re blocking the light again,” drawled a voice that had quickly come to set her teeth on edge.

“Shove it, Malfoy,” she snapped venomously to the languid youth sprawled in an armchair.

“Temper, temper.” He shut the book he had been reading, carefully inserting a marker between the pages before tossing it halfway across the room.

Hermione’s scowl deepened. From past experience, Ron could have warned Draco that no one ever, ever abused a book in her presence. It was tantamount to an unforgivable sin. “Don’t throw that!” Walking over, she picked it up and gently stroked the cover before reverently placing it upon a shelf. “Show a little respect, why don’t you?”

“It’s just a book,” he smiled disarmingly. “Besides,” he added, “you’re so amusing when you’ve got your dander up.”

“I’m not here to amuse you; I’m here to make sure you behave.”

“And an excellent job you are doing of it, madam jailer.”

“Do you ever stop?” Hermione asked with exasperation oozing from every word.

Flinching, Draco paused, his eyes holding a haunted look rarely seen outside of midnight terrors and prison walls. “I stopped once, but it didn’t make a difference. I still cost a man his life.”

Hermione swallowed, buried memories resurfacing; at a loss for words. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, the inadequate idiom rolling off her tongue.

“So are you willing to trust me now with the lives of Potty and the Weasel?”

“That’s too bad because I think I sent them to Outer Mongolia. I wouldn’t worry too much though. Scar-head should fit in just fine. It’s a pity you didn’t go Granger, I’m sure you’d be a valuable asset in communicating with the yaks…”

He broke of as Hermione, with a strangled shriek of utter frustration, grabbed the book off the shelf and launched it at his head.

When Harry and Ron returned triumphant an hour later they found a very cheerful Hermione practicing spells to make a pineapple dance across the table, while a subdued Draco read in the armchair, his book propped up to hide a rather glorious black eye.